Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
BEK Feb 20
Let me sink like a smooth river stone
An illusion of solid and smooth perfection
Yet a mere chunk of matter
The result of many falls and stumbles
Years of immersion at the surface
Of a relentless and powerful stream

Displace every bit of oxygen within me
Fill my body with water
Suffocate every bit of my existence
Intoxicate every ounce of red fluid with acid
Until this burden that beats within me is defeated
The invasion that frees my soul
Natália Aug 2018
We've grown distant
two lonely lighthouses
in the middle of the ocean
our glow shining away
from each other

Sailors come for safety
little did they know

We are searching for
the light too.
“So that was the Lighthouse, was it? No, the other was also the Lighthouse. For nothing was simply one thing” - Virginia Woolf
- Apr 2016
died, eventually.

Picasso, pervert, died; Whitney, Winehouse, drugs, dead; Elvis, Methamphetamine, died

(on the toilet).

Van Gogh,
missing an earlobe,

head in an oven,
in front of her kids,
Patron saint of insanity, I guess
waded into a river and-

River. River Phoenix. Drugs.

Natalie Merchant wrote that song about him in 1995.

Flash forward.
Me, twenty-one, drunk.
Proprietor of a collection of lackluster poems.
Sold their small, nonbinary soul to the Devil
in exchange for a fortune,
Written to be a spoken word piece
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
Your colors are so heavy, how dare I, I cannot sleep. Years inundated under, through skin coils, marigold fields. Yellow crocuses, orange California poppies. Moors of cattle ranchers, yokes of oxen. Plasticine uber-confidence, silky white-skinned testubular thrice people harmonies. Blisses of contagion, contagious bliss. Wrists and incisors, tying down in a bedroom, waking up to live harps and choruses. You dance like you're so alive, but I'm so alive I can't dance. Or breathe. Or knead my fists of earthen wears, or sell my soul completely. I drove off a cliff last night, but the four foot fall ended neatly. The plateau authors my chance to sew my bright, beyond- my fortunes. But the hour before I fall asleep, seems to be the greatest torture.

— The End —